"murderwithoutacorpse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Daniels Norman A)

But they didn't get Conway. He, in fact, agreed thoroughly with Malloy and knew the consequences
might mean suspension or worse. There was no evidence to back up his wild story. So Conway
just faded down the same alley that the man who escaped from the burning car had used.

He reached a small, dark public park and sat down on a bench to think it over. Until be
could prove his story, there wasn't much sense in facing the precinct captain, reporters,
photographers and finally the police commissioner.

Conway knew all about this Weldon Somers. His father was wealthy. The boy had too much
money and influence. He liked poker games, liquor, horse racing and blondes. Especially the
blondes.

Forty-eight hours ago his father notified the missing persons' bureau that Weldon hadn't
come home and that his sedan was also missing. A quiet alarm had been sent out. Conway even
had the numbers of that car filed away on the card in his hat.

A good lawyer could make a lot out of that little detail, insinuating that Conway saw the
car, called to the driver to halt and, when he didn't, opened fire. Realizing his mistake,
the patrolman then fashioned this phony story to cover the results of his itching trigger
finger.

At that thought, Conway remembered his own stained forefinger. He brought out his flash-
light and studied the stain intently. He realized that the man who had pretended to be the
victim of a gunman, must have had a bottle of this blue dye in his pocket. When he hit the
ground, the bottle broke. On that slender clue, Conway had to base his entire case. It looked
hopeless, but Conway recalled the way he'd first faced a target on the police pistol range.
That had seemed hopeless, too; but he'd made the grade and topped all comers.

He knew also that Weldon Somers had been last seen entering the roadhouse owned by Jim
Bowker. It was just this side of the city limits and isolated enough so that spotters could
give a quick alarm if police cars showed up at the wrong time. Plenty of money changed hands
in the rooms on the second floor of Bowker's place. He'd been chased out of the bright-light
district months before, The Broadway squad hadn't liked the sound of his roulette wheels.

But Somers' trail ended at the roadhouse because plenty of people had watched him drink
himself into a state of plastered frivolity and pester the show girls and customers.

Jim Bowker's story was that he led Somers out of the place, put him in his car and told
him to beat it. Yet Conway's blue-stained finger intrigued him even more than this much pub-
lished history of young Somers.

Conway glanced at his watch. About this time Bowker's place would be going full blast.
If he had any kind of a hand in the murder of young Somers and the apparently faked killing
of that other man, he'd be there alibing himself all over the place. Which meant his house
in town might be empty. Conway decided to have a look. Not that he had anything on Bowker,
but sometimes wealthy, foolish kids mix too well with gamblers and racketeers.